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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26967607">death remembered should be like a mirror/ who tells us life's but breath, to trust it error</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/snnycarisi/pseuds/snnycarisi'>snnycarisi</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>If We Were Villains - M.L. Rio</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Reunions</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 20:27:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,456</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26967607</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/snnycarisi/pseuds/snnycarisi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In his head, when he pictured how this scene would play out, how he would finally say those words to Oliver, he pictured saying it like a prayer, each of those three words sacred. But prayer is old; it is repetitive and over the hundreds of years it has been spoken by hundreds of people, the meaning is diminished. Instead this is new, this is fresh, he feels like the barren grass coming to life under Persephone’s foot as she emerges from the underworld come spring.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James Farrow/Oliver Marks</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>82</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this was originally meant to be part of another fic, but slowly grew in length and became another reunion fic so. here it is lol. i've not written from James' pov before, but it was fun :-)</p>
<p>TRIGGER WARNING - depression and dissociation are described at various points throughout, so if reading about that is triggering to you, please read with caution</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>James sits on the beach as he’s done hundreds of times, the days all blurring together in the haze of summer heat, looking out as the sea smacks into the shore. He thinks of nothing, he feels nothing. He’s spent the past four years practising unplugging himself from James Farrow, leaving that boy behind while he sits and waits. An empty shell, a dull existence— but peaceful nonetheless. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Footsteps behind him, he pays them no mind. But they grow closer, they move right towards him, not the sea. They sound determined, not like the locals that sometimes stroll along the sand, ignoring him as if he were just part of the landscape.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He turns his head, and he looks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The man approaching him wears a million different expressions upon his lovely face, joy and anger and bemusement, but more than anything, relief. James’ breath hitches and he stands, time beginning to move again and all of a sudden he wonders why he would ever have wanted to disappear. He stands and he moves towards the man, towards </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oliver </span>
  </em>
  <span>and then he’s running and hot salty tears mingle on his cheeks with sea spray and then, they meet.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re alive.” Oliver whispers, barely audible. It’s not a question, not an accusation, it just… is. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James nods, not trusting his voice, not trusting himself to keep from spluttering apologies. That’s not what Oliver wants, so he says nothing. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Instead he crashes into him, arms winding around his neck (much thicker, much </span>
  <em>
    <span>stronger </span>
  </em>
  <span>than he remembers), so tight he almost worries he would suffocate him. For a moment, Oliver does not respond, only stands there stiff and awkward. Then he seemingly comes back to life and, gingerly, wraps his own arms around James' waist and rests his chin on top of his head. Neither of them speak, only the sound of waves and wind and seabirds. James is still crying, and he hates himself for it— he doesn’t deserve to be the one who’s crying. But he can’t stop. He can no longer smell the ocean, all of his senses overwhelmed with Oliver; his scent, soap and something distinctly masculine, the warmth radiating from his arms and his chest which are pressed against his own. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He thinks for the millionth time, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and for the millionth time he does not say it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry.” he whispers instead, because he just can’t help it. It wriggles out of his mouth and then it’s out there before he can take it back.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I know.” Oliver replies. He doesn’t forgive him. Good. he doesn’t deserve forgiveness. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p><span>Oliver pulls out of the embrace enough to look him in the eyes, and James is pleasantly surprised by this new-found confidence; ten years ago Oliver would have forgiven him, he would have held him until he calmed himself down, because the Oliver he knew existed to serve others before himself, always. While James has stayed, for all intents and purposes, a boy— brooding, miserable, a tempest of anger still raging inside of him anytime he gave himself the opportunity to </span><em><span>think</span></em><span>—</span> <span>Oliver has grown up. This puts, not a smile but close to it, on James’ lips. </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Why did you leave me?” Oliver asks, and all of a sudden the facade is broken and he is that same insecure boy James fell in love with. He feels the guilt crawl back into his stomach, as familiar and constant to him as the tide comes in and out. Oliver’s fingers dig into James’ sides even tighter, desperation leaking out of him so intensely James doubts he has even considered being ashamed of it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I had to,” James whispers back, just as desperate, “I’m so sorry, Oliver, but I had to. Just </span>
  <em>
    <span>existing </span>
  </em>
  <span>everyday, knowing what I’d done, knowing that you were the one answering for it was unbearable. It was… paralysing.” he didn’t know how else to describe it, the torment that weighed on him the first six years of Oliver’s sentence. By the time he plucked up the courage to disappear he’d been spending weeks at a time unable to get out of bed, not eating, not talking, so consumed by guilt and grief he barely existed. Now at least he could </span>
  <em>
    <span>pretend </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be free of it, pretend to be someone new with far less baggage. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Oliver nods, like he expects this. He closes his eyes and James watches a tear run down cheek, fighting the urge to wipe it away. “No one told me. No one even told me and then I got out and I wanted— you were the only one I wanted to see. But you were just </span>
  <em>
    <span>gone</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I didn’t even know.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His breath hitches on the last word and James sees red. It hits him how fresh this wound is for Oliver, how little processing— </span>
  <em>
    <span>mourning</span>
  </em>
  <span>— he’d been able to do. Rage courses like a strong current through his veins, rage towards all of his friends who could have told Oliver, could have been there for him in his own absence, but chose not to for their own selfish reasons. What makes him even angrier is that he has done the exact same thing, what moral ground does he have to stand on? </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry.” he whispers again, because it’s the only fathomable response to that confession. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Oliver sniffles and pulls away from James, sitting down in the sand with a dull thud. He angles his body away from James so he cannot see his face as the sniffles come louder and turn into sobs muted by the hands he brings up to cover his face. All James can do is sit beside him, one hand caressing his back as gently as he knows how. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s reminded, now, not of that one summer they spent together on the beach as he thought he would be, but of Halloween night 1997, the night everything started going wrong. How he sat in the sand, lungs aching and vision blurry with intoxication and a lack of oxygen, his entire universe shifting before him, but he was kept grounded by Oliver’s hand on his shoulder. He remembers feeling like nothing would ever be okay again, but at least he had Oliver beside him. He didn’t say anything that night, probably wouldn’t have been able to say out loud what he felt in a way Oliver would understand. He couldn’t read Oliver’s thoughts but knew he was thinking things he would never say, too.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe without the silence they could have figured things out. Maybe without the silence, things wouldn’t have had to turn out the way they did. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Though he hasn’t touched </span>
  <em>
    <span>Pericles </span>
  </em>
  <span>in years, the words come to him as easily as his own name. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>O, let me look,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” he says softly, pulling Oliver’s damp hands away from his face and taking them in his own warm and dry ones. Oliver looks up at him, face open and vulnerable and </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanting</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He can no longer hold back from doing what he’s wanted to do from the moment he saw Oliver approaching, hell, what he’s wanted for the better part of 14 years. One hand still holding Oliver’s, the other reaching up to cup his cheek, James leans in and presses their lips together, feeling his own tears once again flowing freely. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A noise rips from Oliver’s throat, caught halfway between pain and desire. James pulls him closer and brushes his thumb over his cheekbone, catching the tears as they fall. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually they part. “I’m sorry.” he says again, and though he means it with every inch of his soul, the words seem hollow, meaningless in their repetition. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Oliver shakes his head and presses his thumb against James’ lips to silence him. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Your present kindness makes my past miseries sports. On the touching of his lips I may melt and no more be seen.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It saddens him to think he is so easily forgiven. All the hurt he has caused, all the suffering he has put Oliver through— forcing him to sacrifice his youth and throw ten years of his life away to keep James safe… all that forgiven with just a kiss? It isn’t fair and it isn’t deserved. But despite this, James is selfish, and he knows he cannot find it within him to turn away Oliver’s affection. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Come. Be buried a second time within these arms.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They embrace, and as James feels the sturdy weight of Oliver’s head resting on his shoulder, it occurs to him that this doesn’t have to end right away. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I may no more be seen again</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Perhaps he was simply following the play, but he may have meant that, too. If he were willing, James would spend the rest of his uneventful existence with Oliver’s head on his shoulder and his arms around his waist; no amount of memories it brought back could make it not worth it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>For the million-and-first time James thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and for the first time, he says it aloud. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>In his head, when he pictured how this scene would play out, how he would finally say those words to Oliver, he pictured saying it like a prayer, each of those three words sacred. But prayer is old; it is repetitive and over the hundreds of years it has been spoken by hundreds of people, the meaning is diminished. Instead this is new, this is fresh, he feels like the barren grass coming to life under Persephone’s foot as she emerges from the underworld come spring. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Oliver holds him even tighter and laughs wetly, but his tears no longer seem to come from sadness. “I love you too, moron, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And James thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>neither would I</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but this he doesn’t say. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>So they sit on the empty beach, and they hold each other. James’ mind works hard to re-memorise the shape of Oliver’s body, firmer and broader than he remembers. His fingers brush through the thick texture of Oliver’s hair, he breathes in Oliver’s scent. But mostly, he just sits, letting himself feel all the love and joy and passion that makes him who he is, all those feelings he vowed to leave behind with his ‘death’. Love cannot solve his problems, he knows this— in fact, many of his problems arised from said love— but it makes everything a little more bearable, a little more colourful. It will not solve his problems, nor fix him </span>
  <em>
    <span>or </span>
  </em>
  <span>Oliver, but for now he is content just to sit with it. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Their arrangement cannot last forever, he knows this. They live in their own little bubble, one they’ve created to protect each other from reality, and as nice as it is, neither expect it to be permanent. Still, spending a lazy afternoon dozing on the sofa with his head resting in Oliver’s lap, the last thing James wants is a reminder of the fragility of their situation.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>is this me adding a chapter to an already completed fic because i'm procrastinating studying? yes. yes it is.</p><p>that being said i wanted to write a lil bit about oliver and james learning how to live with each other and trying to make a relationship work with all their trauma, baggage and general issues-- it's a lil messy and that's okay!! </p><p>anyway. hope u enjoy, i can't guarantee i won't add more to this fic but for now i will say that this is the last chapter.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>A week passes and suddenly James’ shitty apartment that he pays rent for in cash feels like home. With every room he enters there is the reminder of Oliver’s presence; his shoes by the front door, his toothbrush next to the bathroom sink, the book he’s been reading lying open on the sofa. More than that, his presence by James’ side nearly every moment of every day reminds him that simplicity can be a good thing. Before he felt as if his routine was pointless, his </span>
  <em>
    <span>existence </span>
  </em>
  <span>pointless, because what did he have to show for the fact that he woke and ate and walked and slept everyday? Nothing. Now he thinks maybe he doesn’t need that, maybe waking next to Oliver and cooking for Oliver and strolling the beach with Oliver and falling asleep holding Oliver is reward enough on it’s own. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Their arrangement cannot last forever, he knows this. They live in their own little bubble, one they’ve created to protect each other from reality, and as nice as it is, neither expect it to be permanent. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Still, spending a lazy afternoon dozing on the sofa with his head resting in Oliver’s lap, the last thing James wants is a reminder of the fragility of their situation.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> Oliver’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He puts his book down on the coffee table and, one hand still carding through James’ hair, holds the phone up to his face, then freezes. All of a sudden the illusion is shattered. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Who is it?” James asks, sitting up and watching Oliver with concern. Oliver turns the phone around to show James the contact name. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Incoming call: Pip</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His lips drawn into a thin line as if anticipating a punch thrown his way, Oliver accepts the call. James almost wants to tell him not to, to just put the phone down and pretend he has no service, but he knows this wouldn’t be fair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Before he can get a word in edgewise Filippa asks, “where are you, Oliver?” the exasperation in her voice hard to miss. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I told you,” Oliver replies. It almost shocks James how well he’s able to feign innocence, a dopey kind of confusion, before he remembers who they both are and what they both could have been today if it weren’t for everything that happened. “I’m travelling. Seeing the world— well, the country at least,” he chuckles. “Getting some fresh air and figuring out what I’m doing with my life.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Filippa sighs. “But where </span>
  <em>
    <span>are </span>
  </em>
  <span>you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The beach.” he says, the facade of casualty dropping. It seemed Oliver’s acting had become as rusty as his own. James’ nails dig into the flesh of his own thighs as he focuses on controlling his breathing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please, Oliver, just cut it out,” Filippa’s voice is so soft he can barely hear her. “No one’s heard from you in almost a month and you promised me I wouldn’t have to worry.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No one </span>
  </em>
  <span>probably meant Meredith. James tries to keep himself calm, the decade-old jealousy churning inside his stomach as he thinks about Oliver coming home to </span>
  <em>
    <span>her </span>
  </em>
  <span>after his release, her taking him in and making him think her house was now his home. He knows it’s unfair to be upset about— he can’t blame either of them for thinking exactly what he wanted them to think—  but it still hurts to think how easy it would be for Oliver to get sick of him, pack up and go back to Meredith. They could have a good life together, a </span>
  <em>
    <span>normal </span>
  </em>
  <span>life, and he would always just be stuck here with no one but his sick, lonely self. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He realises that Oliver has not replied. Instead of wallowing in his own anger and anxiety, James reaches over and takes one of Oliver’s hands in his and squeezes it. Oliver smiles gratefully. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did you find him?” Filippa asks, and James stops breathing. He drops Oliver’s hand as if it had burnt him. Oliver’s eyes bulge out of his head and he shakes it furiously, mouthing,</span>
  <em>
    <span> I didn’t tell her</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He splutters over words, his brown cheeks blooming a deep crimson. “I— how— how did you know?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Despite everything, Filippa laughs, a loud, joyous ‘Ha!’ sounding tinny through the phone, and James is suddenly hit by how much he misses her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ve always thought it was too perfect, just disappearing into the sea. No body. It never sat right with me. Now </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>disappear right after finding out what happened? Please, I’m not an idiot.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No, she wasn’t an idiot. Far from it. She was far more clever than she was given credit for, having figured out what not even the police could and all on her own.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You know me— </span>
  <em>
    <span>us</span>
  </em>
  <span>— too well, I think.” Oliver replies, finally relaxing into the conversation.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is he there? Can I talk to him?” she asks, a bit too hopeful to sound casual.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wants to. He wants to more than anything. After spending so long completely alone he’d dreamed of getting the opportunity for just one more conversation, just one more chance to  talk about nothing and everything and just </span>
  <em>
    <span>be </span>
  </em>
  <span>near the people he loved. He thinks back to third year, before everything went wrong, how he could sit up in the library for hours surrounded by his six closest friends, his family, reciting verse or discussing homework or whatever it was they talked about. He wants it back, but he knows it couldn’t be like that now. He knows that if he does pick up the phone, the conversation will be heavy with his guilt </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>hers, both with far too much baggage for anyone so young. He just isn’t ready.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>James looks up at Oliver who is watching him expectantly, and shakes his head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, Pip, he—” Oliver starts, and James can’t bear to meet his eyes again. He stares down at his own hands in his lap and wills the building tears behind his eyes to leave him be. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, it’s okay,” she interrupts, “I shouldn’t have asked. Just tell him… tell him we miss him. I  hope he’s happy.” she says this without a hint of sarcasm, without any resentment, and James just can’t take it anymore. He rises from the sofa and tears out of the apartment, not even pausing to put on his shoes. He doesn’t know where he is going, just needs out of the stillness of his apartment, needs noise and chaos that aren’t coming from inside his own head. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Before he can get far Oliver comes racing up behind him. “Hey!” he shouts, an attempt to get James to slow down, to stop, but he can’t. He no longer knows how to stop running.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A hand reaches out and grabs his shoulder. He flinches away before he realises Oliver has  caught up with him. Immediately he regrets flinching, but before that week it had been so long since he’d been touched, he still isn’t used to it. For four years all he had were his dreams, dreams where Richard came back to life to chase him and grab him and shove him and drown him. Oliver’s touch is usually more gentle.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” he says again, softer this time, more of a question than anything else. James stops and turns to him, but stares down at Oliver’s also shoeless feet. How could he possibly articulate the emotions broiling up inside of him? The guilt, rage, sadness, self-hatred, love and more he couldn’t even name, all stirring up together to the point where he no longer knows the difference between them? He couldn’t say it out loud in a way Oliver— or anyone, himself included— would understand, so instead he says nothing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“James,” Oliver says, taking his chin and tilting it up until their eyes meet. “Talk to me. Please.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can’t do it. I know it makes me a coward— I’m sorry— but I can’t do it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oliver’s dark blue eyes fill with sadness. “I know, love, but you can’t keep running for the rest of your life. You know Filippa will keep your secret— she did it back then, she’ll do it now.” he leans forward, whether consciously or not, until their noses are nearly touching. “Don’t you think she’s been through enough? Doesn’t she deserve this?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>James wrenches out of Oliver’s grasp. Playing into his guilt complex— it was just cruel. He knows logically Oliver feels bad too, is just doing what he has always done, trying to make everybody happy. Maybe Filippa does deserve it, but how can he not understand that James simply </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>give her that? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The noise in his head grows louder, screaming now, and the feeling in his belly grows hotter, like fire burning inside his gut. It’s unbearable. Before Oliver turned up his life wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but it was bearable. He knew how to turn his thoughts and feelings off like a light switch, didn’t need to think or feel horrible things because he had no reminders of his horrible actions. He can’t take it. If he stays any longer, he fears he will say something awful, so he does what he does best and takes off down the street once again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oliver shouts something but he doesn’t listen, just moves faster. He needs silence. He needs noise. He doesn’t know what he needs but he does know he has to get away. He doesn’t dare turn back and see Oliver hopelessly watching him go.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He walks for hours. Walks until his bare feet go numb, his head too. Walks until he forgets his own name, forgets who he is and where he is and why he’s there. It’s peaceful, almost. But then all of a sudden he looks up at the sky and it’s dark, it’s been hours since he left home (though it feels like just minutes) and Oliver would be worrying. He takes a few moments to come back to himself, taking in his surroundings and figuring out how to get back home.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> He feels a tremendous amount of guilt for leaving Oliver for so long— he hadn’t meant to, and now that he feels like himself again, his little… episode… seems selfish and ridiculous. It takes time to learn how to take other’s feelings into consideration again, he supposes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As he steps inside the apartment James is immediately hit with a wave of regret. It’s meticulously clean, as if Oliver had spent his day alone dusting every bookcase, sweeping every floor. Oliver himself is perched on the sofa, a book in his hands but his eyes fixed to the front door. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Without speaking, James makes his way towards the sofa and tentatively sits down next to Oliver, who makes a point of looking down at his book, ferociously avoiding eye contact. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Reaching out to stroke his cheek James mutters, “hello.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not speaking to you right now.” Oliver offers in reply. It’s immature, like a child giving his friend the silent treatment on the playground for not sharing toys, but it’s oddly endearing too. Shoving James’ wrist away from his face, Oliver angles his body towards the opposite side of the room, his shoulders sharp with tension. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry.” he says, and how tired of hearing those words Oliver must be. But he can’t stop saying them anymore than he can stop meaning them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oliver, unsurprisingly, says nothing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay. I’ll give you some space, then,” James sighs, rising from the couch towards the kitchen, so at least he can get started on an apology dinner, but before he can get too far Oliver’s arm darts out and grabs onto his wrist.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No. don’t go anywhere, please. Just—” he looks up at James suddenly, eyes huge and desperate, “I need to see you. I know it’s stupid.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s not stupid,” James replies, feeling his heart heavy enough to burst with both his love for Oliver and hatred for himself at his inability to go a single day without hurting him. “I’m right here, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere.” it was a silly promise, one he’d already broken too many times, but one he would never stop trying to mean. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oliver nods uncertainly, and well, James supposes he does deserve that apprehension. He sits back down on the couch, this time close enough that their thighs are pressed together, and wraps an arm around Oliver’s shoulders. He feels Oliver exhale shakily and curl into him, his head now resting on James’ chest, and it’s moments like this that make all the horrible feelings worth it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Every time you leave I’m scared it’ll be the last time I see you,” he whispers into the fabric of James’ shirt. “Shit. last night you must have gotten up to go to the bathroom but I woke up and I was alone and… I just want to stop being so goddamn fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>scared </span>
  </em>
  <span>all the time.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He knew the feeling. For James, every moment since Richard’s death— hell, since Halloween night of their fourth year— had been laced with fear. The fear of being hurt or even killed turned to the fear of being caught, the fear of losing more people he loves, and then, when he couldn’t live with that fear anymore and was forced to leave his life behind and come here, that fear never left, only morphed into the fear of being found again. Even now it crept up on him, fear of losing Oliver, and he too wished it could all just stop. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He can’t make it go away and as much as he wants to, he can’t reach inside Oliver’s head and pluck out the anguish. All he can do is be there, and hope, </span>
  <em>
    <span>trust</span>
  </em>
  <span>, that Oliver will do the same thing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It was immature of me to do that today, Oliver, and I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am </span>
  </em>
  <span>sorry. It’s just hard to let someone in after so long.” he hopes Oliver sees this as an explanation rather than an excuse. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oliver doesn’t reply, but this time he doesn’t seem angry, just tired. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t mind if you need to be alone, you know,” he says after a few moments, “You can just say that. And if you can’t— or don’t want to— talk about what’s upsetting you you can just</span>
  <em>
    <span> say that</span>
  </em>
  <span>, too.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>James nods. “I will. From now on, I will.” this is a promise he intends to keep. “I’m sorry for scaring you. But Oliver, I promise I’m never going to go far. I’ve spent a decade without you already, and I don’t plan on going a single day like that ever again.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hopes this request to spend the rest of their lives together is subtle enough that it doesn’t seem too overwhelming, but it’s something that needed to be said. Though James knows their situation cannot last, he hopes that whatever happens next they will be together. If Oliver didn’t feel the same way, he isn’t sure what he’ll do. Dwelling on that is the opposite of constructive, though, so he lets it go when, instead of responding, Oliver draws him down into a kiss so warm and affectionate it might as well be confirmation that his feelings are mutual. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They pull apart and for a moment both are content to just sit in silence holding each other as they calm themselves down. It occurs to James that perhaps this is better than numbing himself; here, with the love of his life pressed against his chest keeping his heart beating steadily, he feels safe and comfortable and at peace with himself. His thoughts don’t run wild, he doesn’t find himself spiralling as he has the weight of Oliver’s body to keep him grounded. This is contentment. This is happiness, even. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you tired?” James asks when he feels Oliver yawn. He nods. “Let’s just go to bed, then.” to hell with dinner or anything else they were expected to do that evening— it could wait. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He attempts to stand and winces, realising how badly damaged his feet are. The adrenalin had worn off and he was left limping towards their bedroom. Noticing this, Oliver shoots him a quizzical look before piecing together what had happened. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“James, your feet!” he wrestles him back down onto the couch and takes James’ feet in his hands, inspecting thoroughly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine, don’t worry about that now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oliver glares at him. “You’re bleeding.” the blood was dry, already forming scabs, but this didn’t seem to be a helpful distinction. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oliver, if you want to clean my feet for me you’re welcome to do so in the morning.” Oliver’s scowl remains plastered to his face, but there’s amusement lying underneath. James feels his lips tug into an easy smile. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t think staying here would mean becoming your housewife.” he bites back. Their eyes meet, and they’re both grinning. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course you’re not, how could you be a housewife with those ruggedly handsome good looks?” Oliver chuckles but blushes and attempts to hide it by ducking his head. Laughter bubbles up in James' chest at how easily he’s still able to get him like this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stands again, this time more slowly and with Oliver’s help, and together they hobble into the bedroom. Neither can be bothered to change into pyjamas, so they simply undress and crawl beneath the covers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It occurs to James just how lucky he is. Lying inside his lovers arms in the bed they share, he has everything he’s dreamed of for the past decade. The bed is no longer somewhere he is haunted by old ghosts that slip beneath the sheets with him as he sleeps fitfully. It’s no longer somewhere he lies for days on end, too depressed to move. It’s somewhere he can be held, somewhere he can be loved, and most importantly, somewhere he can find peace. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He turns his head to find Oliver’s lips and kisses him deeply before they both fall asleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>James awakes with a start. He’s never been a good sleeper, and months of sleeping on top of the murder weapon he’d hidden— as well as spending the ten years after that in almost total isolation— had conditioned his mind into waking at the slightest noise or shift in the room. The noise that woke him— Oliver sniffling in his sleep— ceases but James’ heart still hammers in his chest. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He still wasn’t used to sharing a bed with anyone, let alone cuddling with anyone, and as much as he wanted to be held by Oliver, he couldn’t help but feel suffocated. Suddenly the arm draped over his stomach feels like an iron bar, clamping down and trapping him in place. No matter how much air he tries to take into his lungs he still can’t breathe and just rolling over and going back to sleep is no longer an option. Tears well in his eyes out of frustration more than anything else, and carefully, so as not to wake Oliver, he slips out of bed to get a glass of water. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He shuffles towards the kitchen sink slowly on his painful feet and braces himself against the counter. Oliver’s phone lies just inches from his hand and a thought pops into his head. It was just after 11pm here, so it wouldn’t yet be too late in Illinois— Filippa would probably still be awake. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Before he can let himself spiral, dwelling on his fear and guilt and anger, he picks up the phone and searches for Filippa’s contact name. His mind empties of everything apart from the thought that Oliver wants him to do this, and all he wants is to make that man happy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The phone rings only four times before Filippa answers. “Oliver?” the worry in her voice barely concealed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” he starts, hoping his voice won’t crack, “James.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For a moment, they’re both silent. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, Filippa: “Fucking christ. So you </span>
  <em>
    <span>are </span>
  </em>
  <span>alive.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>James lets out a shaky laugh, and suddenly how good it feels to hear Filippa’s voice— his protector, his confidant— outweighs the fear. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I am. Oliver’s been taking good care of me.” he adds, because he’s almost certain she would berate him if he began apologising.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’d hope you’re taking good care of him, too.” Filippa asks with that stern, almost maternal tone, the one that made him very much doubt she was telling the truth when she said she didn’t have younger siblings. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“As best I can.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They talk for a while longer, or rather, Filippa tells stories while James listens. The conversation ranges from stories of directing at Dellecher, stories about Camilo, what Alexander and Wren and Meredith are doing now— James has nothing much to contribute, but it’s a nice reminder that the rest of his old friends are getting on alright for the most part. After a while Filippa runs out of things to say (this is a shorter time than might be expected, she’d never been much of a talker) and they agree to weekly phone calls, as long as Filippa promises to keep it to herself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As James stumbles back into the bedroom, he notices Oliver is awake and bleary-eyed watching him enter. Thinking back to what he’d said just hours ago—</span>
  <em>
    <span> I woke up and I was alone</span>
  </em>
  <span>— James feels his stomach drop. He crawls back into bed but props himself up on his elbow, Oliver’s gaze still locked onto him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did I scare you?” he asks tentatively. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” Oliver mumbles, still half asleep. “heard you talking.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I couldn’t sleep. I was speaking to Filippa.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Oliver’s eyes slip shut again and a lazy smile spreads across his face. Again seized with affection, James huffs out a laugh and leans forward to kiss his forehead. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I love you.” he says, because he can and because he means it and because he wants to say it every single time he thinks it from now on, because what’s stopping him?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oliver takes James hand in both of his and brings it up to his lips, his mouth grazing over the knuckles. “love you too. Sleep.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He lies back down next to Oliver, so their bodies are still touching but he is free of most of his claustrophobia, and closes his eyes. James sleeps. He does not dream. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>comments and kudos are appreciated !!</p>
<p>find me on <a>twitter</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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